


Between Two Lungs

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Fix-It, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn With Plot, Pre-Canon, Public Sex Fantasy, Secret Relationship, Size Kink, Soulmates, Telepathic Sex, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27489064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: Tom had always found it rather peculiar that the first thing soulmates shared was pain.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 24
Kudos: 85
Collections: The Terror Bingo, The Terror Bingo (2020)





	Between Two Lungs

**Author's Note:**

> **Bingo fills:** soulmarks | pre-canon | public sex (fantasy)
> 
> Please refer to the end notes for content warnings!

Tom had always found it rather peculiar that the first thing soulmates shared was pain. To his credit, his soulmate must have been taking very good care of himself, for Tom rarely found those mysterious scars and bruises Ma warned him about. Whenever they appeared, he inspected them curiously, tracing the outline of wounds and poking on purple bruises. It was strange to think that there was a boy somewhere slipping in puddles, stumbling down stairs, bumping into furniture; a boy whose soul was fashioned from the same cloth as Tom’s, and who would, one day, come to love him.

He knew it was a boy.

He knew it would be love.

Ma would correct such notions, telling him that soulmates were always female and male, destined to be wedded; in the rare case they happened to be the same sex, that simply meant they were to be the best of friends.

Tom doubted that; doubted it more and more the older he got.

Since the age of ten, he carried wayward sorrows which weren’t his own. His soulmate had a nervous disposition, a constant sense of dread without the alarm of immediate danger. It felt like gloom; perpetual shadows of impending doom. Whenever such distant anxieties gripped Tom, he took special care to summon the utmost calm in response. His soulmate was easy to soothe thus, which made Tom feel rather useful; indeed, nothing brought him greater joy than to be of his service. He realised it must’ve been the reason for communal pain: to help ease the burden before they even met; to nurture, nurse, protect.

When he came of age at sixteen he started noticing that beyond mutual pain, there was mutual pleasure, a secret sort that was never talked of in society. Nevertheless, the stirrings of his groin were becoming unmistakable, and quite distinct from the ache of awakening from a thrilling dream. This pleasure was shared; it meant that his soulmate was half-sick with yearning, or, well, enjoying himself. The sensation wasn’t intrusive: a touch of warmth, the nudge of lust. Tom politely ignored it initially, but on a memorable night sometime before his eighteenth birthday, he gave in. When he felt his soulmate’s desire, he yielded to it, stroked his erect cock under the blanket and felt divine rapture overwhelm the both of them: a connection so intense he spent within minutes, and when he next felt his soulmate beckoning, he flushed and kept his hands to himself, biting his lips.

On the day of his birth, words appeared on his wrist in a deep-blue ink: _let us hope the ice will be merciful._ The handwriting was awkward, but Tom followed it with the tip of a finger, whispering the obscure words to himself in a variety of accents.

By nature, he was a solitary man. He valued his time too much to waste it on a futile search for connection. It was a comfort, then, to know that his soulmate would arrive into his life, whatever Tom did: they’d cross paths inevitably. He’d just have to be patient—and patient, he was. He waited through long winter nights, when ice would mostly likely be mentioned. He unbuttoned his ears whenever he was in company, but to no avail. He started wondering whether he might’ve missed the whisper of the fateful sentence, but Ma told him that’d be impossible. Her assurances didn’t cease even when Tom finally confessed the likely sex of his pair.

He went to sea. It wasn’t in search of company. Not initially.

An unfortunate accident left him with a broken leg; and as he lay on the sea-sodden deck, cradling his busted knee and breathing through the pain, all he could think was _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_. A panicked sort of serenity overtook him: as if his soulmate was channeling calm in a frenzy. Tom was touched by such a fondness he sobbed with it, which the men mistook for tears of pain. Tom cried the entire night, but it was for love.

He took himself in hand again while he was recovering. He’d been advised, like all men, especially sailors, of the dangers of self-abuse: wasting one’s seed supposedly harmed the mind as well as the body—but like most men, and most sailors especially, he ignored the warning, if only for a night. His soulmate responded readily. It was much different from the fever of their initial union. Tom caressed himself gently, and his soulmate matched his tenderness. They made love this way; Tom wanted to share the pleasure as thanks, to reassure his soulmate that he was hale.

He started missing a man he had never met.

How he wanted to be held by him, when upon returning, he was faced with a tragedy: his mother injured and sick with medicine, laughing and laughing. He put all thoughts of his own happiness aside while he nursed her. He wouldn’t have noticed how exhausted and haggard he’d gotten if his soulmate hadn’t sent him peace, his usual anxiety lingering in it. Tom wished he could reassure him better than with the tired thought of _all well_.

He was wiping sweat from Ma’s forehead and telling her about the posting for Antarctica when she took his wrist, gently, knobby fingers spelling out _let us hope the ice will be merciful._ “Go find him,” she croaked.

He went to the end of the Earth, but his soulmate wasn’t there. He took great care to initiate conversation with all the sailors, but none replied with recognition.

It was silly, to feel abandoned.

He was present when Captains Ross and Crozier compared soulmarks, rolling up their sleeves one night amidst much chuckling. _Good evening_ , Crozier’s spelt. Tom felt a pang of immense sympathy at that.

“The moment Miss Cracroft greeted me, I knew it was her,” Crozier said with a glint in his eyes.

“Oh, I knew it was Anne all right,” Ross replied, displaying the writing on his wrist: _these blasted pigeons!_ Crozier laughed with a sharp guffaw, and Ross went on. “She’s dreadfully afraid of pigeons; I valiantly rushed to her aid in Covent Garden. She often tells me she would’ve fallen in love with me even if we weren’t destined; in any case, I’m glad she’d been displaying _are you quite well, ma’am?_ on her delicate wrist, not the profanities I shouted at her feathery harassers.”

Crozier chuckled, touching his glass to his smiling lips. There was watered wine in it. “What about you, Jopson? What will be your soulmate’s first address to you?”

Tom set down the decanter, and showed his wrist shyly. Crozier inspected it with fatherly care, then nodded sagely. “I wish ladies were allowed aboard,” he pronounced. “Your soulmate sounds like a wise woman; it’d be a pleasure to sail with her.”

Tom affixed his cuff, hiding a bitter smile.

He was twenty-four when he got picked for Sir John’s expedition. There were people who had to wait longer to be matched, he was well aware of that; he only wished he weren’t so alone in his hardships. It’d give him such peace of mind to leave his mother in the care of a beloved companion, and to write him letters about the fears he hadn’t told anyone: how inadequate he felt, how miserably he failed in saving his mother.

They were sailing for icy regions again, but his thoughts weren’t on the soulmark on his wrist. Indeed, he only minded Crozier, refused twice by a woman who, by all accounts, should’ve been his destined match: _a pleasure to make your acquaintance_ was written on her wrist, Crozier’s very first words to her. Tom couldn’t fathom the heartbreak the good captain must’ve suffered, but the magnitude of it could be observed easily: Tom was to fill the pantry with an alarming number of spirits.

He was arranging the last crate of whisky, brows furrowed, thinking of the best course of action. He was so lost in thought he hardly noticed the answering anxiety of his soulmate getting sharper, clearer. He registered the approaching steps, and glancing up he saw Crozier accompanied by his newly elected first lieutenant, who was shivering in the cold spring breeze, shoulders pulled up to his ears.

“I’ve bad news for you about the weather in the Arctic,” Crozier told him with a wicked cheer; the lieutenant smiled at him dolefully with a quick, defeated quirk of his lips. Tom has never seen a more melancholy man; or a prettier one, for that matter—the lieutenant’s handsome features matched his rank; his hair curled over his collar in gentle waves; his eyes were warm, the colour of ale; he had freckles and lush whiskers, both becoming his noble features. Tom got to his feet and bowed readily, drawing Crozier’s attention to him. “Ah, Jopson. Meet Lieutenant Little, and tell him he’ll need a thicker coat.”

Little suppressed a sigh and offered his hand to Tom. “Let us hope the ice will be merciful.”

Tom choked on the greeting he was about to say. He clasped Little’s hand, his heart hammering in his collapsed chest. Whatever he should utter next, they would be the very words on Little’s wrist—he was sure of it—but oh, what a cruel twist of fate! He knew his match would never be easy: that he’d be loved by another man—but an officer! Crozier’s right hand! A gentleman at that: his accent, bearing, not to mention the gold watch chain—all spoke of a wealth that was unattainable to Tom.

Oh, he couldn’t—he mustn’t reveal himself to Little: it’d be his ruin, to be burdened by a poor steward, a merchant’s son, whose only dowry was sickness and injury. He bit his tongue and shook Little’s hand silently. Little had no reaction to his rudeness; he merely looked puzzled, gazing at Tom as if he recognised him from somewhere, but couldn’t quite place his features.

Tom was quick to excuse himself from the captain.

There was no escape, however. Crozier needed him on the expedition, and Tom wouldn’t have abandoned him at his darkest hour. Two years of silence: he could manage that—he should just be careful never to address Little, not even with a feeble greeting, an _excuse me, sir_ or _would you like some tea_?

The task proved to be immensely difficult. He hated to be rude. Granted, there were stewards who faded into the background, like Mr. Hoar; who, like Mr. Gibson, set to their tasks with such routine efficiency it didn’t necessitate much direction or chatter; or who were friendly, but as discreet as Mr. Bridgens. Tom, however, was valued for his company just as much as for his duties—he knew it well: Crozier relied on his observations and connections, his ability to strike up conversations and gather information that would otherwise never reach the Captain’s ears. Lieutenants Hodgson and Irving came to rely on him quickly, and even Mr. Blanky took notice of him; as for the men, he wasn’t well-liked, but he was trusted. Avoiding Little was near impossible when Tom didn’t have the luxury to hide in his cabin, always running some errand and bumping into Little on the way.

If only Little ignored him, the same way most officers dismissed stewards: but he was the most companionable of them all, despite his dejected character. Tom was always greeted, and acknowledged; Little even spared him compliments; and all the while all Tom could do was bow and smile, biting his tongue.

The most dreadful aspect of the entire ordeal was that try as he might, he couldn’t break their connection. Little’s mounting worry chased him; abed, he felt him restless and stirring, and wished he could walk over, slip under the covers, and stroke his luscious hair until he slept. Every time Little flinched at a sharp remark or quick dismissal, Tom yearned to hold his hand. He was made to care for this man: yet he abandoned his calling, for it had to be a mistake.

Weeks passed, then a month, two; they left Baffin Bay and Little’s uneased worsened, hovering over everything like a thick mist until Tom became convinced others could feel it, too. He was choking on his resolve, thus, when exiting his cabin he collided with Little, the gasp dislodging from his mouth brought him momentary relief. Staring at Little’s stunned expression, he spoke without thinking, mind hazy and heart racing. “You startled me, sir.”

Little’s expression crumbled. He seized Tom’s arms, and walked him backwards into the darkness of the open cabin. Tom could not see him, but felt him trembling, and felt—oh, everything he had ever felt, their connection strengthened further through mutual recognition. He felt Little’s torrid emotions as if they were his own, storming in his chest, rushing through his veins like lightning.

“I suppose you were expecting a lady,” Little rasped, gripping Tom still. He held him at arms’ length, and as Tom’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see how intently Little was meeting his gaze. Since they met, Little had never taken his eyes off him.

“I knew it would be a man, sir,” Tom confessed, and swallowed thickly. Little must have felt the disappointment rolling off him, the heartache and chagrin. “Only,” he added, “I was expecting an equal.”

Little’s grip eased; he stepped away, as if just noticing himself, and tucked his hands behind his back, standing at parade rest. “I knew I wouldn’t be to your satisfaction,” Little said, with no accusation or anger: if anything, he sounded defeated. “The moment the mark appeared on my wrist, I knew I’d frighten my soulmate as soon as he saw me.”

“I wasn’t frightened, sir,” Tom said. “You must’ve felt I wasn’t.”

“I sensed your distress, Mr. Jopson; I still do, and I hate to be the cause,” Little went on, voice soft—oh, he had such a lovely voice! “I wanted to apologise for being such a letdown—I would have hid, too; I shan’t force myself on you.”

Tom blinked at him dumbly. Little was his soulmate; wasn’t he to know what went on in Tom’s head, always? How could he misunderstand him so? Did he not recall the tender moments they shared? Tom flushed to remember them, but inspired, he stepped closer.

Little pulled back. The cabin was small: as he recoiled, his back hit the wall. Tom chanced another step, until they were chest-to-chest, and Little could feel every skip of his racing heart: it’d been beating for him, all this time. “I dearly wish I could be your match, sir,” Tom said, earnest, “but it’s impossible. I’m the wrong class and sex: our union will never be blessed.”

“I know that,” Little said, then added, “I’m awfully sorry.”

It would’ve been easier to refuse him, were he not so endearing; if his eyes didn’t glint the way they did; if his very scent wasn’t beckoning Tom to embrace him and never let go. “I’m sorry, too,” he said, voice more broken than he would’ve preferred.

Little took his hand; Tom expected him to shake on it, seal the deal; but Little kissed his knuckles, then his lips graced the writing. Heat rushed through Tom, his blood singing with it. He never knew it felt like this, to be touched by one’s soulmate. He wondered if it was like this for everyone, or if it was Little’s charm alone. He glanced up at Tom, eyes dark; his whiskers scratched the sensitive skin, and Tom knew he’d be marked by Little’s scent that evening. The desire he felt couldn’t be helped; as he looked at Little, he knew it was answered.

Little dropped Tom’s hand and pulled back, like he promised. He stepped to the door, ready to leave. Tom followed him out of sheer instinct: every time Little moved now, it felt like there was a rope binding them together, and when he moved away, it grew painfully taut. Little glanced back over his shoulder, finding Tom hovering behind him. He stepped over the threshold, and it took all of Tom’s willpower not to follow. The knowledge that Little would leave and spend the night in his own cabin felt like cruel punishment for something neither of them intended or wished.

Little looked him over, toe to head: Tom felt naked, and more than that, _wanted_ to undress; wanted Little to explore every scar he left, and map out the injuries Tom caused to him. He yearned to stroke and kiss every inch of Little’s skin, cover it with love-bites and gentle bruises, mark their belonging.

He couldn’t very well do any of that.

“Thomas,” Little said, merely a whisper. He glanced down the passageway, then took hold of the doorframe and leant close again, his eyelashes flickering as he squinted at him. “It’s Thomas, right?”

“Tom,” Tom said; he knew Little would never call him that, for it wasn’t allowed, but he wanted to give him his name, let him keep it; it’ll be safe with him, it will—

“Please, Tom,” Little said, “if you think of me, think of me as Edward; it’s only just.”

“Edward,” Tom repeated, and his heart shattered. 

The following weeks were unbearable. Sharing the grief of separation through their connection brought no relief. They were bound now, so tightly that whenever Tom tried to stay away, he was in acute pain. Thus, he had become Edward’s shadow, always near but never touching him.

He was envious of people with their wives’ first address; felt sympathy for those whom fate treated more unkindly than him. Irving had his own name on his wrist: whether it’d be the way his soulmate would address him, or whether he was alone in the world was not clear. Others, like Dr. McDonald, had no marks at all: unmatched or, as Tom suspected, disinterested in having a relationship. Dr. Goodsir, however, bore enigmatic symbols that turned out to be Netsilik; even more curiously, Mr. Bridgens had no writing, but the symbol of a fish-like eye—he said his soulmate didn’t know his letters when they were matched. He heard Sergeant Tozer boast that he had soulmarks on both wrists and an ankle, but didn’t give much credit to a marine. Gibson’s mark was vague like Crozier’s (a simple _how are you_ ); he confided in Tom that the caulker who caught his eyes had removed his own mark—the scar-tissue of faded cuts obscured whatever had been there. 

Tom wanted to find comfort in the stories of his shipmates, but his compassion was with Edward above all. He didn’t deserve to be denied love, but Tom would not assist in the ruin of his reputation. He followed him around, which was easy to do, for Edward kept to the same rooms as Crozier, varying between the great cabin, the wardroom or the deck (the hours of his watch were always miserable). Tom never thought he had the capacity to care more for someone than his mother or Mr. Crozier: his love for them felt so absolute he could hardly imagine an affection that’d outgrow them. The love he used to feel for his nameless soulmate had been gentle: the tender yearning poets spoke of, fragile and sweet even in suffering.

It was now agony.

He watched a lock curl over Edward’s nape and thought he’d perish.

He listened to the music of his steps and was convinced he’d break.

There was no reason not to converse anymore, so they talked whenever they could; polite chatter when the other officers were present, and desperate whispers when they weren’t.

“You’re perfect,” Edward said, leaning on an elbow at the deserted wardroom, the glow of the lamps hugging his gallant figure. His words were slurred when he was tired: it was unbearably adorable. “I watch you dash about all day, and marvel at your patience; you’re capable, efficient, diligent, and above all: kind to the bone.”

“Oh sir, really,” Tom said, pulling his broom closer as if he could hide behind it. “There’s no need to flatter me.”

“It’s not flattery,” Edward insisted, wetting his lips. “I know you; I _feel_ all you do; you’re all this and more, all the while carrying a heavy heart. I wish you had someone to aid you.”

“I have you, sir,” Tom said softly. Edward smiled at him; his smiles were rare, and unhappy.

“I’m no use to you,” he said. “A man like you deserves better. If you’re holding back on account of some misplaced loyalty, I beg of you, be free.”

“I’m bound to you, sir,” Tom insisted. The rope between them tightened, and tightened, and tightened.

Edward straightened, his brows serious, eyes aglow. “Then I release you from my bond,” he said sternly.

“I shan’t leave you, sir,” Tom said. “Don’t ask that of me, not ever.”

Edward got to his feet, swearing. There was no anger in him, just the same desperation Tom felt, helpless and beaten. He walked up to Tom, stomping, and got hold of his chin. He looked into his eyes, searching for something he couldn’t find. “Perhaps if you gave yourself to another; an equal, like you said,” he mused.

“I don’t think that’s possible, sir.”

“You must’ve sensed me doing it,” Edward said, and stroked his cheek. “It felt like adultery, but I’m not like you: I couldn’t wait; I’m afraid you’ll find that I’m rather greedy.”

“I know you aren’t,” Tom said, putting up his chin in defiance. “It wasn’t adultery; couldn’t be: you weren’t my Edward yet. I’m glad you found pleasure when I wasn’t there to give it to you, sir.”

The words hung heavy between them. _Now I’m here_ , Tom was thinking.

“Keeping you to myself when I can’t even touch you would be utterly selfish,” Edward said. “All I want is your happiness, yet I’m just a burden in the way of it. You must try to be rid of me.”

 _Now I’m here,_ Tom thought again, standing close to Edward, whose hand was on his face, then in his hair, adjusting his errant strand.

“Find someone to love,” Edward whispered urgently, teeth glinting. “I can feel such abundant love in you; I know you could give an ample amount to someone else even if your soul is bound to mine—and I promise to try and marry, so no one will suspect that we indulged in anything of inappropriate nature…I’ll find a Mrs. Little and treat her well, and you must find a good man and allow yourself to be loved; promise me you’ll find somebody to treat you like you’re holy, Tom, God blind me, you should be worshipped—”

Tom kissed him. He buried his fingers in Edward’s whiskers and sealed his lips with his own. He knew not what he was doing: he let instinct guide him, the rope between them now thrumming like the string of a violin, playing a reckless melody. He licked into Edward’s mouth, who responded in kind and groaned. It was a deep, glottal sound, and it was Tom’s ruin.

He walked to the table, pulling Edward along. He laid down, all the while kissing Edward, who put his knee to the table’s edge and bent forward to dine from Tom’s eager mouth. Edward’s ferocious appetite made Tom think of the first time he touched himself, how keenly Edward responded—he must’ve been a midshipman and he loved Tom then; he loved him, and no disaster happened; perhaps it could be averted again, perhaps—

Oh, it was a dangerous gamble.

“Stop,” he moaned into Edward’s mouth, grasping the front of his coat. Edward broke the kiss, but stayed close, the both of them gasping for air. The heat of his lips was still warming Tom’s, and he could taste him, tea and bitter chocolate, and wanted more of it, wanted to gorge himself on kisses. He felt the press of Edward’s cock, thick and heavy as it poked against Tom: he bucked before he could help himself. They both grunted, then Edward stepped back, holding up his hands. Tom remained spread out on the table, a heaving mess, his bulge tight and unmistakable. Edward was staring at it directly.

“You must excuse me for getting you into this state,” he said, voice husky, and wetted his lips again. “I shall, ah. Retire to my cabin, and leave you to rest—”

Tom whined. Mortifying as the sound was, he couldn’t bear to be left behind; but he must, he must—

Edward was back by his side, and gathered him up in his arms. Tom clung to him miserably, breathing in his scent, so he would remember—

One day, they’ll go back to England; one day, the rope between them must come undone, one day—

Not now.

“I’m here, I’m here,” Edward said. He smelt of wool and rich tobacco, the scent more familiar than anything Tom knew.

“Don’t go, sir,” Tom begged, breathless. “Not yet; this voyage may be all we are granted. I’m not allowed to keep you, I know; so I won’t have you; I shan’t; it’d only be harder to give up. Don’t take, then, what little I’m allotted; don’t deny me your company just because we can’t unite the way we want.”

“I shan’t,” Edward promised, and kissed him again. Tom squeezed his eyes shut, trying to compose himself. There was no point: Edward knew of his turmoil; Edward knew him like nobody else. “We’ve done it before, haven’t we,” Edward proposed, whispering against his lips, “when we—thought of each other, and—if you wanted, we could seek ease that way, instead of—”

“Yes, sir,” Tom whispered back, pressing his forehead to Edward’s. “Yes, I want that.”

“Let’s get you sorted.” Edward gave a parting kiss, tight-lipped; then set to adjust Tom’s clothing and hair, who just sat upon the table, feet dangling, throat tight and cock throbbing. He was eager to fondle it, but he knew another surge of passion would sweep him away completely. “Here’s what I’m proposing,” Edward said, giving a final tug to Tom’s collar. “I will go to my cabin—no, hear me out—but leave my thoughts with you; I’ll chant your name like a prayer, and beckon you closer, but you shall only send your soul to me. We shall connect our minds thus, but leave our bodies separate, and thus have better control over desire.”

Tom nodded, wordless. A secret worry seized his chest: what if their connection proved to be too fragile? Edward answered: he merely gazed at him, and Tom felt reassurance overtake him.

“Say my name,” Edward said softly.

“Edward,” Tom said; he understood then that the bond was stronger than ever—for his soulmate was no longer a shapeless figure, but Lieutenant Edward Little. He watched him leave, and could let him do it, for Edward wasn’t really _gone_ : his thoughts stayed with Tom, who laid back on the table and stared overhead, basking in his lingering presence.

He should probably retire to his cabin. He had the luxury of a door; but it wasn’t exactly soundproof. Hodgson was on watch, so Edward had his privacy; but Tom’s neighbour was Blanky, who mustn’t be subjected to the noises of self-pleasure under any circumstance. He got to his feet presently, and pushed the nearest cupboard to the door. If anyone should come a-knocking before the watch was over, Tom could say he’d been sweeping under it. As he was putting it into place, he felt the first pull in his groin, a sensation far more acute than he recalled. He gasped and collapsed against the furniture as his knees buckled. He pressed his face against the cool wood, trying to gather his senses as a second rush of Edward’s arousal gripped him; a gentle probing arrived with it, as if Edward was whispering, _may I_?

“ _Yes, sir,_ ” Tom mouthed, concentrating on the intent so it would be felt through the distance. He palmed at the opening of his trousers, thumbing the buttons. He was not going to get his cock out while standing. He’d go back to the table, lay down, pretend he was tucked in bed; only, he needed to press his palm against the building pressure, just for a moment.

He really felt as if Edward was with him still, standing behind him. Tom’s hand was his: soft, broad, the nails well-trimmed. He’d run them up Tom’s length (he gasped), curl his fingers around the pink cockhead and nudge the skin back, so its shiny wetness was revealed. Tom was staring at it, heavy-lidded, bracing himself with an arm against the cupboard. He indulged in the fantasy of Edward watching him as he stroked himself, following the pulsing rhythm of their shared desire. His hair fell into his face, but he didn’t mind it. He was staring down at himself, as if transfixed, realising slowly that it was Edward’s desire to see him.

 _Spit_. It wasn’t words, not exactly, just an urge to do it. He obeyed, sensing that Edward’s cock was slick already, dripping with a rich oil—his vision blacked out, and for a moment he could picture it so clearly he wondered if he was really seeing it—then he was back to himself, his fist twisting his cock, which was not his usual method, for he preferred strokes—he watched his fingers’ grip ease to a caress.

“Oh dear God,” he whispered.

So.

It wasn’t like before; not at all.

It was better.

He turned, putting his back against the cupboard, but he couldn’t stay upright for long. He sank down to the ground, kicking his boots out, trousers twisted over his knees; utterly unbecoming, but all the more appealing for that: for it was Edward who reduced him to this state, whose presence overwhelmed him so completely he didn’t mind the unbecoming posture, all his attention on his aching cock. It felt as if Edward was kneeling by his feet, watching Tom with his head tilted as his hand worked between his own legs with rough pulls that made Tom salivate.

He felt his own hand stroke up his chest, and let it slide under his waistcoat. If Edward was present in not just soul but body, Tom would want to do this still: allow this possession, make Edward watch how well Tom followed his directions, teasing his own chest—his nipples weren’t very sensitive, but Edward’s were, he could feel that, for when he touched his chest Edward keened.

“You like that, sir?” Tom whispered, desperate to be heard. He spit into his palm again, because Edward instructed him thusly, caressed his cock—he knew that Edward was paying attention, learning his tricks.

He teased himself to near-bliss, then felt a push from Edward to grip the base. “I can’t,” Tom panted. “Please, sir, let me spill already—I’m not experienced like you, I can’t take it anymore, let me—”

Edward sent him an apology, and a new push of arousal with it; the sensation engulfed Tom, like a mighty wave crushing a vessel, and he spent into his palm. He reached out for Edward at that moment, and pulled his mind into his pleasure; felt him merge with it, flooded by Tom’s climax, which became his own.

Tom wished he could hear him cry out, for he could sense he shouted into his pillow. They both waited, breaths bated, but no-one else paid mind to Edward’s muffled yell. Tom grinned, relieved, and let go of his spent cock. He sat there, debased but elated, and felt Edward’s love around him like a warm embrace. 

He sought him out the next morning. Edward was up early, retreated to a lonely corner of the deck. It was early, which allotted them some privacy. When Edward sensed him, he turned before Tom made his presence known, and opened his arms to him. Tom clung to him as long as he dared, staring out at the sea over Edward’s shoulder, an endless stretch of dark blue hue. There was plenty of distance to cover yet; plenty of time left, but not nearly enough.

“Laying with you would’ve been simpler, sir,” Tom whispered as he dislodged himself from Edward’s arms. “I’m aware of that now.”

“Nothing simple about it,” Edward muttered mournfully, a finger curled around Tom’s pinkie. He leant close to him; not close enough to be improper for the unknowing eye, but enough to make Tom flush.

He peered at his Edward from under heavy lashes. “I never knew that a bond could be this strong, sir.”

“Me neither,” Edward said. “Depends on the individuals, I wager.” He dropped Tom’s hand and stepped to the starboard railing, leaning over it. A breeze caught in his hair, made it curl under his cap. Tom was eager to adjust it, but couldn’t, for an AB was passing them, and they might have been observed. “The more happy we are now,” Edward said under his breath, “the more desolate we will be when we are made to part. I think of our return to England and despair.”

Tom couldn’t resist placing a comforting hand between his shoulderblades. Edward nearly purred with it. The touch was warm, and immensely satisfying.

“We have time yet,” Tom said, voice broken.

Edward looked at him, eyes pools of sorrow. _I was given this woebegone man_ , Tom thought, _to be his comfort_.

“Come with me,” Edward pleaded. “Let’s sail; may our feet never touch land again; when this expedition is over, let us join another promptly. I’ll be made commander, when we find the Passage: be my steward, Tom, be mine.”

Ice clenched Tom’s heart. He gripped Edward’s coat, clinging to him as long as he could.

“You’re my soulmate, sir,” he said, “but my first loyalty is to the Captain; I couldn’t abandon him.”

“It’s lucky, then, that every ship needs a captain.” Edward glanced at him again, a hopeful smile playing on his lips. Tom let go of him, and schooled his features so he wouldn’t gape.

“You’d follow him, sir?”

“To the ends of the Earth, if it meant you were aboard. He’s a fine man, and seems to trust me; how I earned it is beyond me, but the fact stands—”

“Yes,” Tom breathed, then repeated, louder, “Yes, sir. Let’s follow Captain Crozier to the ends of the Earth, together.”

Edward’s smile widened, although it was still a sorry thing. Tom wished to kiss at the corners of his mouth until they curled further. There’d be opportunity for that, on a ship. What a life they would lead! Always at sea; between expeditions, visits to London, to see how Ma was faring. Once retirement was approaching—perhaps a cottage, somewhere remote and safe—but that’d be years and years.

“I’ll try my utmost to remain in the Captain’s graces,” Edward said. “There’ll be time for that; I expect we’ll be snowed in.”

Tom blinked at him, sobering. “Have you shared your concerns with the Captain, sir?”

“They’re not based on any intelligence; I merely heard it happens; I don’t know why it wouldn’t happen to us.” Edward rubbed his gloved hands together. “Perhaps you could influence him to go somewhere sunny next. I really enjoyed my time in the South Americas, and my Spanish is passable; you should mention to him that the local food is superb, unlike anything he ever tasted. There’s this dish called _tacos—_ ”

Edward talked on, and Tom leaned on an elbow to listen, enthralled. He watched his face become animated, felt his excitement, and couldn’t hide his smile. Nobody would begrudge them for being friendly, he reasoned, despite the difference in their ranks. Why couldn’t Edward be generous enough to entertain a steward? They’d merely need to refrain from touching until they were in private, and all would be well.

Or so he supposed.

To keep one’s desire subdued was a manageable task; but two desires, feeding off each other, constantly provoked—that was difficult. As the week progressed, Tom neared his wit’s end. They couldn’t steal a single hour to be intimate, not even from remote quarters. The most they managed was an interrupted attempt, where Tom was summoned by the bell almost as soon as he got his cock in hand.

By Saturday’s breakfast service, he was close to desperation. He served the last of the bacon, barely focused on the task. He was too preoccupied by Edward’s moods: how graciously he pushed through anxiety to converse with Irving; his desperate hope that Hodgson would enjoy the marmalade he asked Edward to pass; his keen attention on Crozier, and how cleverly he realised that the easiest way to get close to him was to keep away and leave him be. Indeed, Crozier was content not to be addressed, and shot Edward many grateful glances when he diverted Hodgson and Irving’s attention from their captain. During all this, Edward’s mind and gaze kept straying to Tom. Apparently, a flash of Tom’s wrist was enough to undo him: he liked his capable hands, the delicate skin and dusting of hair; his longing was as acute as if he was whispering it into Tom’s ears. It was easy to answer the murmur of fervour: Tom eyed him in his uniform, back straight, proud chest puffed, his whiskers the colour of rust in the morning light.

Tom was holding himself back from climbing under the table and doing something unmentionable.

He thought about it; for no one would notice and thus mind if he had his Edward, would they? He’d be discreet about it, crawling on his knees silently. He’d push Edward’s knees open while he conversed about the weather, rub his palm over his cock to warm it.

He saw Edward shift, felt a flare of want; he refilled Irving’s cup of tea and opened his imagination for the details. He’d undo Edward’s buttons deftly; tug at the shirt, get it out of the way until his cock was revealed, blunt and thick. He’s put his mouth on it. He wouldn’t make a noise, would he? He’d be discreet as he lapped at it, slowly, from root to tip and back again, around the wet head—

Edward reached under the table and adjusted himself.

Tom occupied himself with the sugar tongs, thinking—that’s perfect, isn’t it? Edward could reach under the table and bury his hand in Tom’s hair, guiding his mouth over his cock, making him swallow. Tom would be so good: he’d try to take it all, taste the heat of his skin, his salty need, and suck on his cock until it was hard as it could be, filling Tom’s throat so he was choking—

Edward knocked over his untouched tea and hissed.

“Allow me, sir,” Tom said, grabbing a napkin. He rounded the table easily, quick to dab up the worst of it. He wasn’t noticed: Hodgson kept on with his observations about the weather, which was effectively dozing Crozier; Irving’s attention was rapt enough that he made no note when Edward leant back in his chair. Tom peered into his lap, where some of the tea had spilled.

He was just as hard in his trousers as Tom imagined.

Edward only allowed a moment to look, then concealed himself with the help of the tablecloth.

 _Behave yourself, Tom,_ he thought; oh, nothing could thrill Tom more! He bit his lips and met Edward’s heated gaze, noting the flush of his cheeks. How Edward wanted him: how fervently, how completely—he felt it, and had no want to deny it. If Edward asked him, he would’ve climbed on the table for all to see, let Edward take him on his hands and knees, cream his fingers and let him lap it up after, like dessert.

Edward stayed seated after the service was finished. Crozier was the first to escape, although he was still chewing on bread. Hodgson tried to chat with Edward, who grew very silent; his attention turned to Irving. Together, they left; Tom had scarcely an opportunity to start clearing the table when Edward rose, revealing that he was still in a state of utter agitation.

“Have mercy on me, Tom,” he croaked, gripping the table.

“Not here, sir,” Tom said. He piled the plates on a tray, and turned to take them to the galley, knowing that Edward was following. He could even sense his attention on his rear, which Tom never found to be noteworthy, but Edward was quite obsessed with it.

Tom disposed of the dirty dishes, and started scrubbing them. He heard Edward’s growl in his head. _A moment, if you please,_ he thought at him. Edward retreated, pacing the passageway. Tom never thought he’d be this desired: that he had the ability to drive a man wild with want. He inspected his soapy hands, checking the soulmark. There used to be days when he was afraid that it’d wash away, but it still clung to his wrist, like a promise. Even if it wasn’t there, he’d want Edward Little: he was convinced.

He walked past him with the clean dishes, and opened the captain’s pantry as if to grab something. He stepped in, and felt Edward following. As soon as the door closed, Edward was on him, grabbing his hips.

“Mind the plates, sir,” Tom gasped; he managed to set them down on a shelf, but only just. Edward dropped to his knees, and nuzzled at Tom’s crotch.

“Let me,” he breathed.

It wasn’t exactly what Tom imagined; it was even more splendid. He nodded silently, bracing his back against the shelving. It felt like sacrilege: it was the captain’s place, off-limits to even lieutenants, but if they could steal a few minutes here, unnoticed—

Tom gasped when Edward took him in hand. Keeping this arrangement secret would forever be a challenge: he wanted Edward so much it must’ve been evident for all aboard.

“Hush now,” Edward said, voice warm, lips searing: he took Tom’s cock into his mouth, pushing the skin back with his tongue. Tom whined, then bit on the back of his hand. He used the other to take hold of a shelf, because he felt he’d collapse. Edward’s attention on him felt almost too intense: how he hungered to taste him, how he revelled in the scent; he rubbed his face against Tom’s tender thighs, so his whiskers would leave a mark. _Bruise me up, please_ , Tom thought at him. Edward’s grip on his hips tightened, and Tom couldn’t wait to see if the same marks would appear on Edward’s skin.

“Would you undress for me, sir?” he whispered, voice dropping lower than he ever heard it. Edward was licking at his cock ravenously, and when he pulled back, a drop of saliva dripped from the tip.

“Can’t,” Edward panted, hoarse. “Sorry, love, we must make it quick—once we reach the Sandwich Islands, I promise, I’ll have you proper, have you in the shallows, have you in the warm sand after; would you like that?”

“Yes, please, sir, yes—”

“By Jove, you have the neatest little cock.” Edward lapped at it as if to prove his point, a quick lick that made Tom’s legs buckle. “Pretty like you: maybe you’ll let me take it, when I’m too tired to get you buggered?”

 _Yes,_ Tom thought, for he dared not open his mouth: his cry of ecstasy would be heard in the orlop. Edward sucked on the tip with a look of utmost concentration, eyebrows knitted; when he pulled back, he licked at his pinkened lips.

“I must warn you I’m quite ungainly in comparison.”

Tom looked at him, head swimming. He couldn’t speak, could hardly think: all he could do was nudge Edward’s cock with his boot. Edward rubbed against the blunt toe, then got up to his feet with a rowdy look about him, working on his trousers’ opening.

“I hope you won’t find it too hideous,” he murmured. “I’d dearly love to fuck you with it; have been preparing for the day—”

“Have you, sir?” Tom managed. Edward’s cock was revealed: bigger than Tom had previously thought, with an arching tip, and wondrously thick. Tom had no idea how Edward could think ill of it: Tom touched it reverently, and found the skin soft and velvety even though the shaft was hard as iron.

“I knew I had a perfect little soulmate waiting for me,” Edward said, thrusting into Tom’s fist. “Too perfect to have; but if you let me, I reasoned—”

“I’m letting you,” Tom whispered. Edward grinned at him, just a flash of his teeth, and stepped closer. His trousers slid down his legs; he was otherwise still dressed, like Tom, both in uniforms that were made to seperate them through rank. Edward cornered Tom against the shelving, and slid his cock over his. Tom had always thought himself to be reasonably endowed, but the sight of Edward’s cock eclipsing his own started giving him some delicious doubts.

“I long thought about doing this to you,” Edward whispered against his lips, and canted his hips. Tom moaned; Edward kissed him and swallowed the sound. He began fucking against Tom with hard thrusts, crushing his cock to his stomach. “I wanted to be good at it, so you’d have a reason to stay.”

“I have plenty of reasons, sir,” Tom said between gasps. Edward nipped at his lips again, then reached over Tom’s head to grab a bottle of oil.

“May I?”

“Will it be pleasant?”

“Rather.”

“Then show me, sir.”

Edward slicked up his fingers while rocking against Tom, who felt himself getting closer and closer to the edge. His toes curled, his vision blurred: he could barely make out the door—the very same door Edward had walked through the first time they met, when he had uttered the words displayed on Tom’s wrist, who had thought he’d never have him, that Edward was too good to keep—

 _You were being silly,_ Edward thought at him as he coated their cocks liberally, the dripping oil making Tom shiver pleasantly. Edward thrust against him, the slide of skin on skin eased: Tom had to bite down on his hand again. Edward hushed him, and slid his fingers into Tom’s mouth. _Look at me, please allow me to see those gorgeous eyes—that’s it, you beauty; how could you ever think I was too good, how could—_

 _You’re right for me,_ Tom thought, lapping at Edward’s digits while meeting his gaze. _That’s what it means, isn’t it, being soulmates? However little you think of yourself, you’re exactly right for me._

Edward blinked at him, slow and owlish. Tom grabbed his hair and pulled him into a bruising kiss, bucking his hips to meet his. He felt an everpresent tension ease in Edward; he felt him smile, then the relief of his release. His rhythm didn’t cease: he kept dragging his cock over Tom’s, until it softened, and he replaced it with his hand. Things like this made him perfect: the choices he made to be considerate, how much attention he paid to Tom. It was so much more than predestination. It was Edward’s decision to be the best possible match for Tom, merely to make him happy.

Tom was still kissing him when he spilled, so _Terror_ was spared his ecstatic yell. Edward worked him through it, teasing his cock the exact way Tom liked it, touches soft like a caress. He dropped to his knees again to clean him up with his tongue, lap him tidy and ready for service. Tom played with his hair through it, panting. Tasks were waiting, but he enjoyed the opportunity to touch Edward, cup his face; lower to the ground and kiss him, spell out _thank you, sir_ and promise, _I’ll never take this for granted_.

Indeed, he cherished every moment of the long winter they spent by Beechey Island. While the opportunities to be together remained scarce, their linked consciousness made up for the distance. Tom would touch his soulmark, and knew that Edward would feel his caress; trace the love-bruises on his body, fondly thinking of the hand that left them. Silent flirtation through meals became a habit: they’d share fantasies of O’ahu, then the places of future expeditions, all the countries they could think of, then some they only imagined. They invented an island, which they placed near Greece, where men were free to love each other, and shared their plans of walking hand-in-hand.

_You’d wear a toga and nothing else._

_You, sir, however, would be in your dress uniform,_ Tom thought back. Edward smiled, and hid it in his wine. It was easy to disguise as amusement over the story Commander Fitzjames was telling. The Erebites were dining with them that night. Beef tongue was on the menu, and so was hearty entertainment.

“And then we rushed down into the streets to assist the 49th, which we could hear was under attack,” Fitzjames said. Edward turned to him, smirking still. Tom pulled back from his mind to let him listen. He tiptoed around the officers, thinking of the reward of this endless night: after the table was cleared, Edward had promised to have him in the hold, where they found that the roar of the engine would drown out their shouts. “ I'd just loaded a rocket and aimed when I was pierced. Single musket ball. Size of a cherry. Passed clean through my arm and kept on in, making a third wound here, entering my chest.”

“Like the shot that killed Lord Nelson at Trafalgar,” Edward said, rapt. Fitzjames poked him merrily, but Tom nearly dropped the decanter. His eyes sought out Crozier, who had gotten rather still and pale, and had the general look of someone about to faint.

All this time, Tom had thought the triple wound he carried was from the French.

“Had it not used up most of its energy on my arm, yes, I might have ended same as he.” Fitzjames dropped his hand; his cuff had rode up his wrist during all the bravado of his gestures; Tom could just make out the single word, _morning_.

A lull came.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Crozier said, and rose from the table. Sir John scowled at him before he excused him with a nod, but he caused no stir: save for Edward’s reaction, who, sharing Tom’s thought, was staring at the Captain with an expression of utter confusion.

 _It’ll be all well_ , Tom promised, and rushed after the Captain. He wasn’t headed for his cabin, but the ladderway.

“Sir,” Tom called after him.

“I just need some air, Jopson,” Crozier said. He didn’t turn to face him: he was a bad liar, and Tom knew all his tells. “Dismissed.”

That night, Tom slipped into Edward’s cabin. He was already in bed, and lifted the duvet so Tom could slip in after he stripped. A rare luxury, but one neither of them had mind to exploit.

“Do you think the Commander knows, sir?” Tom whispered, nestling against Edward’s chest, who shook his head.

“I recall a story how he learnt ‘morning’ in every local language, even though the writing is in English; he’s been desperately looking for his soulmate for years and years, certain that she’d be a proper adventuress; what a life he planned!”

“Well,” Tom said after a beat, “Captain Crozier is in the discovery service.”

Edward sighed heavily, and gathered Tom closer. “There’s some relief, you know,” he grumbled, “that we’re not alone; my heart still goes out for them—we know first hand the challenges they’ll face, don’t we?”

 _Do you think one can reject his soulmate?_ Tom thought, putting his hand over Edward’s heart. It was beating the same pulse as his own.

_Seems like it; they detest each other._

Tom curled up against Edward, chilled to think that somewhere deep down, he had the capacity to resent his Edward: but there was also a freedom in that, a freedom of judgement; freedom of choice.

When he brought Crozier his hot water for washing the next morning, he wasn’t too surprised to find Fitzjames in the great cabin. It was somewhat more surprising, although still not shocking, to see him in a dressing gown over his uniform. Tom recognised it as Crozier’s, who was in his shirtsleeves. They were sitting at opposite ends of the table, glowering at each other when Tom entered.

“Ah, Jopson,” Crozier said. “A word, if you please; I find myself in need of your wisdom.”

“Of course, sir.” He felt a jolt of joy at the implied praise; Edward responded to it from the upper deck, where he was engaged in a conversation with Blanky.

“We find ourselves in a position that’s uniquely dire,” Crozier said, and reached for a decanter of whisky, which had been full the last time Tom checked it.

“Don’t,” Fitzjames seethed. “You’ll give me a hangover.”

Crozier shot him a sharp glance, but dropped his hand with visible reluctance. He drummed on the table, and glanced at Tom. “This is precisely it.”

“I believe congratulations are in order,” Tom said.

“Jesus wept,” Fitzjames mumbled, and walked to a port to stare out at the sky dramatically. Crozier gazed after him.

“We had news of David Young’s passing,” he said. “It doesn’t appear to be scurvy, but it cannot be ruled out.”

Tom resisted a confused scowl. “Right, sir,” he said in his most pleasant tone. Edward congratulated him on it. Tom focused on the conversation with all his might so Edward could follow it, too.

“I’m worried of any sign of illness,” Crozier said, “with the number of high-ranking soulmates present.”

 _Bloody hell_ , Edward thought loudly, then kept repeating it.

“Soulmates, sir?” Tom asked, all innocence. Crozier gave him a tired glance, then gestured for him to sit at the table.

“If I fall ill, _Erebus_ will be without a second; if you do, _Terror_ will be, too.”

Tom smiled at him mildly, radiating calm towards Edward, who in the meanwhile got some tobacco from Blanky and lit a pipe; that should help him unwind.

Tom couldn’t wait to take a sniff from Edward’s hair, but there were more pressing matters at hand.

“Don’t get mysterious with me,” Crozier said doggedly. “I remember your soulmark, and thus took note of the words Edward said to you upon your introduction.”

“I see, sir,” Tom said. Edward choked on his pipe; Tom coughed.

“He was right to pray for the mercy of the ice,” Crozier went on. “Hartnell noticed something on his watch which Thomas believes to be old ice; we went up the mast at dawn, and he’s doing a second look to confirm.”

Tom tilted his head, asking a report from Edward. “Lieutenant Little says it’s not summer breakup, sir.”

At this, Fitzjames turned. “You can commune with him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Telepathy between soulmates is not common, but it has been observed,” Crozier said in a diplomatic tone, but his eyebrows betrayed he was impressed.

“A connection like that, yet it’s ostracised when you’re the wrong sex,” Fitzjames grumbled, and headed back to the desk. Tom watched him grab the whisky decanter, salute Crozier and throw it back. Crozier didn’t address his remark, but he smiled with such sad longing Tom had to immediately report to Edward.

“I suspect there may be more soulmates among the lower ranks, sir,” Tom said.

“We do appear to be plagued with them,” Crozier said, shooting a glance at Fitzjames, his eyes hardened again.

“Unbonded men don’t get quite so homesick,” Fitzjames said, defensive.

“Bonded ones go mad with it together,” Crozier sighed. “I’ll propose to Sir John that we seek out a safe harbour—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Hear me out: we could winter there, and retrace our steps come spring. Braving this weather in September would be hubris. Since _Erebus_ is lame, I suggest we should all berth together on _Terror—_ ”

“Out of the question”, Fitzjames objected, just as Tom’s heart soared: if he may share a bunk with Edward—

“Don’t flatter yourself, James,” Crozier said flatly. “In a few days, it’ll pain you to stay away from me.”

James groaned, and swallowed the rest of the whisky.

“What do you say?” Crozier urged. “We need to act posthaste; I’ll need your support on this, and Edward’s, if we are to convince Sir John—and we cannot reveal our soul link; I don’t think he’d be pleased with it.”

Fitzjames licked his lips, and glanced at Tom; his gaze softened with compassion. If he knew of his attraction to men before he was even bonded, perhaps he understood what Edward and Tom would have to go through; what he, himself, was facing.

“I can sense it’s important to you, Francis,” Fitzjames said bitterly. “You won’t admit it, but I also know you’re scared: not worried for yourself, but the men, should they be left without leaders—a sentiment I hadn’t expected from you, but which I appreciate. And, you see, we’re soulmates,” he grit. “I can’t bear to watch you suffer. You have my support, damn you.”

Crozier smirked, face slightly flushed; he turned to Tom. “Tell Edward.”

“He knows,” Tom said softly.

“How bizarre,” Fitzjames mumbled, but patted Tom’s shoulder. It was an odd gesture, coming from him; but it made sense, that he would be absorbing Crozier’s expressions of affection.

The very next day, they sailed to hug the shore; Tom was right by Edward’s side when he gave the orders.

The ice proved to be merciful. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Content warnings** : period typical homophobia is present in attitudes, but it's not internalised by any character affected; no harrassment or bullying occurs / a reference to self-harm like scars (skip the paragraph starting with "He was envious of people") / consent: at times, Tom is undecided if he should engage in sexual activities with Edward; his uncertainty is respected / public sex fantasies: Tom and Edward share a fantasy of Tom fellating Edward under the table, unobserved by the others / if you're particularly sensitive to age difference, be advised that there's 5 years between Edward and Tom, which might make the coming-of-age section of the story difficult to read
> 
> Many thanks to [@ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula) for beta-reading and cheering me on, and for the Terror Bingo for organising the event!
> 
> Title by Florence + the Machine yet again
> 
> Please consider a humble [retweet](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1326177335310159875) or [reblog](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/634410043545206785/between-two-lungs-pre-canon-joplittle-rated-e) 💕


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